


Temptation and Other Drugs

by idealizedhopeless (crucialcomatose)



Category: Knives Out (2019), Original Work
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Implied Smut, Porn With Plot, Ransom has feelings, Ransom is a little intrustive, Slow Burn, Smut, but hes attractive so people excuse it, but they're hidden under a bunch of stuff, hiding feelings under extreme carelessness?, no spoilers for the film, smut with plot, that's Ransom for you., what's possessiveness if you have a nice face to back it up?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucialcomatose/pseuds/idealizedhopeless
Summary: Ransom Drysdale is a man who always gets what he wants.On the surface, he's a trustfund playboy, letting his grandfather's massive book sales fund his expensive, careless lifestyle.Under the surface, however, lies a different story: one rather complex and convoluted, one that trips up anyone that tries to understand him.
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale & Original Female Character(s), Ransom Drysdale/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	1. Spiraling

“Why is everything so complicated with you?” 

Ransom sighs before turning his attention away from the road and to Alana. He rests his tongue against the side of his mouth as if to speak, but quickly decides he has nothing to say. 

They sit in silence for the rest of the ride to his home, of which Alana thought he would drop her off at her own place. Once they pull up into his driveway and he parks his car, she looks over at him, utter disbelief shown on her face.

“This is not my house, Ransom,” she mutters through gritted teeth, hitting him on his arm. Now that she thinks about it, she should’ve noticed he was making none of the correct turns. He unbuckles his seat belt and looks over at her, jaw stiff, face painted with an exhausting amount of boredom. 

“Call an Uber if you wanna go home so bad.” He climbs out of the car, shutting the door behind him before trotting off to his house. _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._

“You’re such an asshole,” she says, calling after him, following his footsteps to meet him at his front door. He heads straight to the kitchen once inside, only breaking to kick off his shoes. _His shoes._

The once distinguishable cracks and bends at the front and the end of the shoe are now gone, replaced by faint, almost unnoticeable, lines at the front and none in the back. _These are, what, $800 shoes? And he already has new ones?_

“You know, if you just took care of your _shit,_ you wouldn’t need to buy new shoes every fucking week.” He wanders back out of the kitchen, rather tall glass of, presumably, whiskey in hand, before plopping down on the couch nearby. 

“Mmn.” He takes a swig from his glass, nodding his head as if he were in deep thought. “I’ll think about that next week.”

Sighing, finally defeated, she pulls out her phone with the intent of ordering an Uber, but is impeded by more of Ransom’s irritating antics. “You know, you could just spend the night.”

She scoffs. “With you, the king of irony? I think I’ll pass.” She shouldn’t have said that because, consequently, he now sees a challenge in convincing her to stay. 

He arises from his seated position and sets his glass, almost empty, atop a magazine on the coffee table in front of the couch. Out of her peripherals, she sees him begin to walk toward her and starts wandering away from him, still trying to download Uber, set up an account, _and_ get a car here _as soon as possible._

“Oh, no, no, no—you’re not doing that bullshit you always do—” Defeated for the second time tonight, she finds her back against one of his numerous windows, her only exit option blocked by none other than Ransom himself. He’s taken her phone and stuffed it into his back pocket, preventing her from completing the task at hand.

“All you do is fuck around, _Hugh_. Give me my phone back. I’m going _home._ ” His jaw stiffens at the usage of his real name, but he shakes it off. 

“Spend the night.” _I should’ve just driven myself. Or not gone at all. Or, even better, I should’ve never slept with him in the first place._ He shifts restlessly once his eyes scan up and down the length of her body—a tell Alana has come to know all too well. 

Alana reaches for his wrist and he flinches before she guides his hand up to the space just below her chin. Like a reflex, his fingers creep toward the back of her neck until his palm is pressing into the front, fingers into the sides, and she finds herself trying a bit harder to breathe.

“Convince me,” she whispers. Ransom tips his head. 

“Y’know, if my mom hadn’t called…” he sighs, “... _I would’ve had you then._ Right over there, up against that wall.” She swallows roughly and he smiles slyly in response. 

_Shit._

She’d say something in response if she could come up with anything, but Alana’s focus is on making sure her knees don't let out underneath her. Placing a hand on her hip, he flips her around on the window, adjusting the grip of his hand on her throat. 

The subtle _zzzt_ of a zipper is heard, along with the light rustling of a pair of pants as Ransom shifts behind her, placing a free hand between her thighs to encourage her to spread her legs a bit wider. The warmth of his hand slides up the inside of her thigh and she feels goosebumps form on her skin as she jumps, sudden stimulation almost making her collapse to the ground. _Shit, shit, shit._

Ransom flips her dress over her ass, slitting her panties to the side and pulling her hips out only slightly. 

“Ransom—” He shushes her as he aligns himself and presses in slowly, gradually, groaning as he feels her adjust to him. The pleasure almost _hurts_ it feels so damn good as she squirms underneath him, running her nails uselessly against the glass in front of her. 

When he’s fully inside of her, he presses her firmly against the window and she finds her only solace on the balls of her feet. Alana’s tiny moans influence him into strengthening the grip on her neck as he rests his head on her shoulder, panting, grunting, groaning from the tightness of her. He bares his teeth, marking her skin and relishing in the way she whines and winces before parting his mouth to speak. 

“ _S_ _pend the night."_ His mumbled, slurred words are accompanied by a rough thrust into her and her only responses are a broken moan and several needy nods as she spirals and spirals, letting him fuck her deep into oblivion.


	2. The "Heart" Wants What It Can't Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> basically, our MC and Ransom meet in a bar for the first time. flirting ensues. everything's downhill or uphill from there, depending on how you swing it.

_Two Weeks Earlier_

“Are you calling me a man-whore?”

“I didn’t call you a man.” Oliver’s mouth gapes as he considers the retort. Alana whips around and flashes him a warm, albeit, _forced,_ smile before continuing her strut to _Insouciant’s_ style closet. “What should I wear tonight? Dress to impress?” 

“A trash bag would better suit your personality.” She ignores the insult and starts flipping through various pieces of clothing; from dresses to jumpsuits to actual suits, the magazine’s overtly massive walk-in closet was stocked with anything and everything. Yet nothing at all. 

“We’re gonna be late unless you help me.”

“Who says I want you there at all?” She turns around again, mimicking his earlier response to her insult before shrugging it off and pulling down three pieces: a yellow, off-the-shoulder, mid-thigh dress, a blue pantsuit, and a black, strapless maxi dress with an off-center slit. Oliver’s eyes scan over each carefully from a distance. He makes his way over to Alana and reaches out a hand to further inspect. 

“No to the blue.” She casts it aside by throwing it onto a nearby chair. “Yellow would be nice with your skin tone. Little loud for a bar setting, though. You don’t like to stand out.”

“I never said that.” He cocks his head to the side. “Come on. I could wear the yellow and be just fine.” His eyebrows raise as he extends a hand, waving his fingers, signaling for her to hand it over. Giving up, Alana lets him have the hanger and he hangs it back in the closet, instead opting for the black to scrutinize it a bit more cautiously.

Her phone dings. One text from an unknown number.

**—Hey. It’s Ryan! I’d like to take you out when you’re free.**

And another, same number.

— **Andiamo on Saturday?**

“Ugh.” She tosses the phone precariously, grabbing the black dress from Oliver’s hand, severely regretting ever giving Ryan her number. _Well, it would be free food._ Holding it up to her body, she scans the fit in the mirror nearby, popping a leg forward to get a full look. _And high-quality Italian, at that._

 _No_. She didn’t have the time for that. Right now, she needed to get the dress on and figure out the rest of her outfit before she ended up being late. 

“Ryan again?” Silence is her answer as she shimmies into the dress, letting her eyes snag on the mirror nearby while on her way to look through the stash of jewelry. Her fingers pad through drawers of sparkly earrings and gaudy necklaces. Yes, it was Ryan _again,_ but anyone you hook up with _twice_ shouldn’t be expecting a real date. Especially after you’ve blown them off time and time again. 

“This one and these?” Alana asks, holding up a short necklace and stud earrings, both silver and subdued in style. Oliver nods his head and watches as she puts the earrings on before making his way over to her and picking up the necklace. He clasps it around her neck. Goosebumps ripple across her skin from the sensation of the cold metal. “Good? Bad?”

“Yes, yes. You’re fine. Can we leave now?”

A mere five minutes early, Oliver and Alana pull up to the bar, a rather rustic yet inviting space for the “ _Most Eligible Bachelors”_ event tonight for the magazine. In big, bold letters on a somber sign out front is the name _Ember Liquors_. 

“It’s a nice place, isn’t it?” 

“You did a good job picking it if that’s what you’re asking.”

“See? You _do_ know how to be nice.” 

As people begin to trickle in, the pair’s eyes flit over every other new man wearing either black or brown slacks, some boring black belt, and a run-of-the-mill button up.

“This is why you should’ve styled the shoot. They all wear the same thing. You’d be good at pulling the personality from them.”

“You just want me around a bunch of single men.” With the wave of a hand, he dismisses her comment. Steadily letting his eyes snag on a couple of especially alluring males, one catches Oliver’s glimpses a bit more carefully.

“See the dude in the scarf over there?” He’s wearing a brown, suede coat and an unusually loud, patterned scarf, with circular aviators on the collar of his cable knit sweater. 

“He has sunglasses on his collar. It’s 9 pm.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But he’s wearing something different, _and_ he’s cute. Right?” 

“He is. I suppose.” Oliver rolls his eyes. “What? I admit. He’s attractive!” He ignores her to further scan the room for potential flings or if he’s feeling particularly lucky, actual _things_. “What about the one coming in now?” 

“Shh, no. That one’s Brian. I recognize him. You know I like guys who’re named Brian. And he’s bisexual. I’m going in for the kill.” 

“Alright, alright. I’ll back off. Good luck.” He swaggers off in stride, taking his time to continue scanning the room while making his merry way over to Brian’s area. Alana does a once over before deciding to settle a drink at the bar. After all, this event was Oliver’s fruition from the past few weeks’ work. Best let him mingle by himself and really enjoy it.

“Gin martini, please.” 

She pulls out her phone just as the bartender finishes crafting her cocktail. The drink is biting; harsh and dry as per usual, but just critical enough to her taste buds to keep her alert. She opens Instagram for a fraction of a second, before deviating away from the app to continue reading the novel she just started. 

**_1000 Knives_ **

**_Harlan Thrombey_ **

_Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson Hodgson caught a glimpse of something shiny hidden under the bookcase. The sun bounced its rays off of its reflective nature. It could have been a long lost earring, one of his sister’s or mother’s, or more simply, a figment of his imagination._

Footsteps approach tediously. From the shoes, Alana safely assumes it’s a man. Another sip goes down harshly. 

_On his knees, Jackson blindly tapped a free hand under the bookcase, kicking up dust and lint until the bump of a foreign object graced his fingertips._

The man appears to be the one from earlier with the glasses on his collar. Except, the glasses are no longer there. Maybe he realized how pretentious it makes you look when you tout sunglasses at night-time. Maybe. But probably not. Another graceful sip. 

_Struggling for a minute, Jackson padded his fingers around for a little more leverage on the object. When his fingers curled over the edge of it, he hooked them on and pulled toward himself hastily, kicking the dust up into his face._

Alana peers up from her phone, diverting her attention only to study him subtly. He stands in front of the bar still, waving his hand to summon the bartender. “What are you drinking?” 

“Gin martini,” she pauses, still refusing to give him the satisfaction or the time. Head still in her phone, she places the glass up to her lips and takes another sip before discovering that she’s out of further sips. _Could squeeze a drink out of him._

Only then does she consider lifting her head for a bit longer than before, giving him the attention he clearly wants from her. _Could keep reading._ She peers up at him again and him down at her. 

“Let me buy you one.” _Maybe not._ Mulling over it again, she scrutinizes his face, then decides to click her phone off and place it down on the bar countertop. 

“I could be persuaded.” 

“Come on. I’ll surprise you.” Draped in cockiness, he swings his leg around to catch the chair next to hers and sits down, getting comfortable by resting his forearms on the counter. Sure he will. “Hey, can I get a whiskey cider?”

“Mmm.” Alana lifts a finger in protest. “I don’t like whiskey.” It wasn’t her favorite. She could have gone for another martini. Why ask her what she’s drinking if he planned to ignore her anyway? 

“Yea, you do.” The bartender shoots him a look before he tips his head in approval. He sets the glass in front of her. Timidly taking a sip, she watches as the guy across from her watches her. The taste is smoother than her martini—something she hadn’t decided on being a good thing just yet. This was the type of drink to catch you off guard. Aside from that, it tasted like cider with a slight bite to it. 

“How’s that taste?” 

“Try it yourself,” she suggests, grabbing the straw between two fingers and placing a third over the hole on the end. Lifting her hand, Alana guides the straw to his lips, in which his mouth parts curiously, eyes narrowing as they lock with hers and a smile inches across her face. She removes the third finger, keeping the straw between the other two. 

He licks his lips as she withdraws her hand. The corners of his mouth twitch as a curious smile makes its way across his face and he leans back in his seat. “Thought you said you didn’t like whiskey.”

“Well, when you put apple cider in it,” she stirs the drink and takes another sip, “Doesn’t taste like whiskey anymore.” 

“Let me take you back to mine after. I’ve got—“

“Ah, ah. Not so fast, big guy." She takes a shameless look up and down the length of his body. Piercing blue eyes, short, black hair, long, seemingly toned legs, and a torso that screams: "I work out." A watch adorns his wrist and brings attention to the sheer size of his hands. He dons casual attire—aside from the subdued white, pinstripe pattern on his black slacks and the brown shoes that leaned on the more _blasé,_ yet classy side of clothing styles. The pullover tops it all off and showcases an apparent carefree attitude. 

He’s attractive, sure, but Alana had already decided she was avoiding any _mishaps,_ especially on a night like tonight, with all these single men around. God forbid she get a little loopy and give her number out again.

"You’re not gonna take me to bed _that_ easily. This is a work function for me. I’m networking.”

“By connecting your straw with the mouths of potential clients. Very effective.” He nods his head in faux-agreement.

“Come on, smooth talker. I don’t even know your name yet.” He looks like he comes from money: from the Rolex on his right wrist to the limited edition scarf from Burberry she saw on him earlier; one she’d tried to snag for the magazine’s endless collection of clothes earlier this year. 

There's no way he didn’t tag along as someone's plus one. Or, he was simply invited by someone. Or, even more important, he was a significant donor to the magazine. Either way, she wants to know who she’s speaking to. “What is the purpose of your attendance?” She raises her eyebrows and plays rather debonnaire, though the opposite is far more likely to be true.

“Some article.” He _would_ be one of the “Most Eligible Bachelors” in Massachusetts. “Bet you can’t guess.” There was a debate in the office earlier this week about how many people would be chosen for the final cut— _before_ the men chosen had even accepted the initial offer. She thinks they decided on ten, but ten seems like an awful lot for just the Massachusetts area. He could be any of them. Reading over the profiles with Oliver yesterday will give her the upper hand on this one.

“And what if I do?” 

A mischievous smile darts across his face before he parts his mouth to speak. “We’ll see.”

“Hmm. Henry Pentworth; did some modeling for GQ and routinely announces his donations of money and time to charity. ‘Cause what’s charity without a magazine cover and an interview?”

“I’m not so friendly. Try again.”

“Okay,” she stalls, sipping up the last few drops in her glass. He nods his head in the direction of the bartender, who starts preparing another drink. “Bradley Martinson. The guy with the degree in psychology or whatever.”

“Do I look like I have a degree in psychology?” He props himself up on his elbow and turns himself toward Alana, letting his hand rest loosely on his cheek. Her attention is drawn to his lips, plump, light red, and almost inviting. _Almost._ Maybe that was the reason for the move.

“ _Fine_. Last guess.” She narrows her eyes and cracks her knuckles before thrumming them on the counter. _Not so friendly._ The rest of the men for the article were either philanthropists or baseless entrepreneurs. There was one that stuck out like a sore thumb; the supposed title male for the whole piece; the only one who hadn’t accepted the offer.

“Hugh. Hugh, right? Drysdale. The leading man. The one with a mysterious amount of money. People think you’re attractive, but you don’t _do_ anything.”

“The name’s _Ransom_. Not Hugh.” The bartender sets the drink down in front of Alana. Just as she reaches for it, Ransom wraps his hand around the glass and puts it up to his lips for a sip.

“‘Ransom,'” she repeats the word, flippantly tossing up air quotes around it, letting it settle in her ears. "Is that how you get your wildly expendable income?" She smiles and cocks her head to the side. Quickly reaching out a hand, she snatches the drink from his palm and brings it up to her lips instead. Savoring the sip, Alana mocks his earlier movement and settles back into her chair, crossing her legs. He follows her carefully, taking time to drink in every inch of her bare skin with voracious eyes. 

"You're not so hot at this networking thing, are ya?" 

"Hmm. Maybe not to you. But, I think I’m wearing you down, Mr. High ‘N Mighty.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Your lingering examination of my legs.” Realizing he was caught, Ransom sucks on his teeth and shifts in his seat. He’s leaned forward on his haunches now, with a sly grin planted on his face. 

“Caught that, did you?” 

“Mhm. What? You thought I wouldn’t notice?” He leans back again, letting out a slight laugh. 

“No, actually. Was hoping you would.” Alana recoils, setting her now empty glass down on the counter. Up until now, she thought she’d had him figured out: a random playboy, at best, who profited off of inheritance money, a grand sum of which he invested into Fortune 500s, who always had it easy adding another notch to his bedpost. He sure did carry himself like one. 

Now? She’s not so certain. Sure, all she thought seemed to be true—even from her glance over of him when he first entered—but the way he’s acting now, inciting her and challenging her statements, makes it seem like he has different motivations.

“Anyways, where _do_ you get your money from? All these other guys make it apparent. You, though, seem like a criminal. Tax fraud? Embezzlement?” She scans him up and down for effect, shaking her head. “No, you're a money launderer. I get that vibe from you."

"Drug dealer." He smiles in response. To Alana, it seems like a dare; begging her to ask more questions about his financial state, or just him in general. Mysterious was the right word earlier; he appeared to want a game of sorts. One he thought he would win by buying her a drink and then immediately asking her to go back to his place. She can see why he did: someone like him—with his looks, money, attitude—probably racked up more than a few conquests with that flimsy invite and facetious dare that he would buy them a drink they were destined to like. 

_Why not?_ The thought had passed Alana’s mind a few times throughout their conversation. Ryan hadn’t worked out a few nights before—way too clingy for anything remotely causal. But this one seemed hellbent on the same thing she wanted. The decision is already in her hands; either accept his invitation via a few more minutes of flirting, secure herself a spot in his bed, let him add another notch to his bedpost, or, the much more viable option; let him play his game with her to no avail. For no reason other than shallow erosion of his seemingly impenetrable ego. And, well, that just seems to be the more appealing option.

"Tell me something else about yourself, criminal."

"I haven't learned anything about you." He raises an eyebrow in curiosity. 

“Fine. The name’s Alana. You said I was bad at networking,” she starts, pausing to press her lips into a tight line. “Yet, here _you_ are: dodging _my_ questions.” She squints at him. _Why don’t I just look him up?_ Soon, she’s picking up her phone and typing his name into Google.

“What? You gonna get my number?” 

“You wish. Your _middle name’s_ Ransom, yeah? You didn’t just make that up to impress me?” After a few seconds of silence, likely Ransom trying to analyze the furious flurry of fingers on her phone screen, Alana looks up at him, then back at her phone, then up at him again. 

“You’re related to Harlan Thrombey? _The author?”_ Alana’s mouth falls open in sheer disbelief right before her hand comes up to cover it. “No way. I love his work. His stories are so fascinating.”

“I’m sure.” His eyes go cold at the downright mention of his name. He taps his fingers on the wood countertop, letting his jaw unclench and his shoulders relax. _That clearly struck a nerve._ He sucks his teeth again before parting his mouth to speak until Oliver walks up next to her. 

“Alana, we have to give a speech in a few. Rania and John want us backstage now.” 

“Ugh. Fine. Well, _Ransom_ , I hope you find the perfect person to take you up on that offer,” Alana says, standing up from her seat, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, flashing him one last warm smile. As she trails past him, Ransom graces his fingertips against the smooth skin of her forearm in a reckless attempt to change her mind, get her to sit back down. The questioning look on her face as she turns to look down at him is enough to discourage him, if only for right now. 

“Don't you worry.” He withdraws his hand, but only after his eyes, icy and steadfast, meet hers one last time: a complacent signal of what’s to come. 

“And what the fuck was that? The dude with the glasses? You said he looked pretentious.”

“I didn’t say that, one. And, two, that dude, Ransom, started speaking to me, okay? I shut him down at the end, as you heard.”

“Alana. Babe. You can’t keep doing this. You’re gonna meet your match one day, and you’re gonna be mad.” 

“Are you insinuating that I have a pattern?” She places a hand to her chest and stops in her path. Taken aback by his response, she quickly ponders a few other people—Jack, John, Paul (or something like that), and Brody in just the past two weeks—that she’s done the same thing with. Now that she thinks about, she’s not even sure any of those are the correct names. It doesn’t matter. They were simply harmless games of light flirting that led to a free drink, and the inevitable decline of any further invitations. 

Ryan had, among others, deviated from her normal path, sure. Which went to show that she clearly didn’t have a pattern. It was less of a recurring hobby, more of an ongoing experiment. Or, maybe here, the exception proves the rule? No, it couldn’t be. She only does it because—well, _why does she do it?_

“You know what?” She starts walking again, but a little too hastily. Oliver struggles to keep up. 

“Maybe I do. But it’s all in good fun.” Oliver didn’t seem to be convinced. Her half-assed analysis was enough to settle her dissonance, anyhow, and that was enough for now. 

###

“He was so cute.” She reaches out a hand to unlock the door to her office, a fairly sizable glass cube in the corner of _Insouciant’s_ floor space. Tossing her phone and purse on one of the chairs in front of her desk, she slips off her coat and hangs it off the back of her chair. The seat elicits a sigh from her as she plops down and slides her heels off, getting comfortable by leaning back.

“Why are we still talking about this? There are many cute guys, Oliver. I’ll sleep with the next one.” 

“And you declined to style the bachelor’s shoot.” He shuts the door behind them and starts pulling open the blinds. “Why in the world would anyone sane do something like that?” She shrugs her shoulders. 

The office, while quaint, provides enough space for Alana to work comfortably. If she cleaned it more often, it would likely be more homely. Racks of dissimilar clothing, new and old, line the walls, all new shipments ordered by her via _Insouciant's_ budget, all categorized by color in some fashion, all things that belonged in the style closet’s arsenal—all things that she has to sort through. 

The new racks catch Oliver’s eye, specifically a certain piece on the outermost one. He gasps, before asking, “Can I go through the new shipments?” Alana smiles, agreeing by giving him a subtle nod.

“Alana, some guy out here is asking for you to do the Bachelor’s shoot—I know you just said you were busy, but he’s not backing down,” says another stylist’s assistant, face looking rather distressed. Oliver, temporarily abandoning his exploration of the racks, looks over his shoulder at Alana, letting his eyes bore into hers. The hope in his eyes is insurmountable, even for her. 

She looks through him at all the clothes on the rack yet to be sorted for storing in the style closet. Other shoots have to be done, her office needs to be cleaned, among other things that she’s let pile up for this specific break. _What’s one more?_

“It’s alright, I can make time. Did he give you his name?” 

“Dreyfus? No…” She looks at the clipboard anchored on her forearm. “A Hugh Drysdale. Said his name was Ransom, though.” Oliver turns completely to meet her disoriented expression. A smile starts to warm his features. Twisting the ring on her pointer finger, Alana nibbles on her lip before clicking her tongue to break her daze. 

“Great. Just send him in.” 


	3. Terms and Conditions Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just terms and conditions. part one of two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy!

He sits across from her, shit-eating grin on his face, one leg resting on the other’s knee. _How did he know?_ The question tinges her mind, but a few seconds of thinking would tell her all she needs to know; he knew the name of the magazine and he knew her first name—more than enough information to do a quick Google search and find out where and how he could see her again. Maybe he did it to get under her skin. That she hadn’t figured out yet. 

“Why are you here?” 

“Didn’t she tell you? I want you to dress me up for the…” he waves his hand, as to give himself time to think, “...article thing.” 

“You don’t even know what it’s called.” 

“I got the gist.” Alana takes a glance at his clothes—some blue-gray sweater, along with a pair of relatively _relaxed_ gray slacks. His coat is discarded over the chair that rests next to him. Same shoes as yesterday; a pair of overtly expensive loafers from Gucci that had distinguishable creases at the tips. Maybe she’d be doing a grave service to the world by dressing him, even if it is only a few outfits for a few pictures. 

“So, if I’m hearing you correctly, you didn’t want to do the ‘article thing’ initially,” she pauses, standing to pace around her office timidly, arms folded across her stomach. “But, you’re here now, deciding to go through with it because...?” _Because he’s another Ryan._

He didn’t seem like a “Ryan”—he lacked most of the major, imperative qualities consisting of, but not limited to, overbearing clinginess and an urge to constantly to overstay his welcome. All Ransom has done is seek her out, albeit a little ungraciously. That might be a cause for worry, especially after yesterday. 

_“Alana. Babe. You’re gonna meet your match one day, and you’re gonna be mad.”_

Was one day today? “I’m just bored.” _Bored? Of what?_

_Bzz Zzz Zzz_

Ransom shifts in his seat and pulls his phone from his back pocket. His expression alters as his eyes pan the screen before he taps the green button, sliding the device up to his ear. “Hello, mother.” 

Alana stops pacing by the window behind her desk, eyes peering through the clouds to trace the streets far below. She really should just kick him out and let the other stylist take the lead before this mess turns into trouble. _“No, I’m busy.”_ A few unintelligible, high-pitched noises squeak through his phone. 

What trouble would this even cause? After all, he’s just a profile that’ll be in an issue that airs two weeks from now. Following that, he shouldn’t be a problem. Unless his main goal was being a problem. Why would it be? Because she declined his advances at the bar?

He lets out a deep sigh, saying, “Well, _Linda,_ you should’ve thought about that. Not my problem.” He hangs up, sliding the phone back into his pocket. “You were saying.” 

“I was not, but with new clients, I usually do a ‘style profile’ to capture their personality and assess their character; just to see what outfits would best suit them—what are you doing?” 

She turns around to see him standing by the racks of clothes, fingers flicking through every other piece. “Exploring. Your office is messy,” he says, refusing to meet her questioning gaze, steadily tending to the task he’s made up for himself. 

“Good thing you don’t live here, then.” A smirk crosses his face, fingers still flicking through various pieces. “Are you here today just to fuck with me?” 

He shrugs his shoulders, crossing the room and heading back to his chair. “You should _really_ tidy up in here.” He sits back down in front of her, leaning an elbow on one of the arms of the chair he occupies. Alana, in knowing he’s far from wrong, rolls her eyes and opts to stay silent. 

_Bzz Zzz Zzz_

It’s her phone’s turn to ring just as Ransom leans forward in his seat, letting his eyes flit over the screen. “Ryan, huh? Boyfriend?” _More of a nuisance._ She shushes him before picking up the device to type out a nimble text, thinking that she probably shouldn’t have put Ryan’s name in her phone yesterday. 

**—Please stop contacting me.**

“Trouble in paradise?” 

Alana narrows her eyes, setting her phone face down on her desk, wishing she could wipe the smugness off his face. “Why were you even there yesterday? You don’t seem interested, which isn’t a bad thing, but you don’t seem like you’d gain anything from it. For these other guys, it’s exposure for their businesses and other endeavors, but you? With your mysterious stream of income? Have you ever even had a job?” 

Her phone buzzes again. Before she can wrap her fingers around it, Ransom is holding it in his hands with a jovial grin spread across his face as he reads the message from Ryan. 

**—Stop contacting you? Fuck you, Alana.**

“Irrelevant. I'm more interested in this Ryan guy. What’d you do?” She sighs, reaching across her desk to snatch her phone back from him. It’s a failed attempt when he escapes her outstretched hand, simply by pulling his arm back. “C’mon. You gotta tell me ‘cause this dude is clearly fuming.” 

She nibbles on the inside of her lip. “He's clingy. We hooked up twice, and he's clingy.” 

“You gotta give guys like this a distinct demarcation. Tell ‘em what you want, straight up.” He doesn’t even look like he’d know the word “demarcation.” He also doesn’t look like he should be giving advice to anyone on how to handle any type of relationship. 

“Are you typically this intrusive?” 

The grin comes back as he cocks his head to the side. “Usually more.” 

_How did we get so far off-topic?_ She still hasn’t figured out his true reason for being there, other than the obvious route of torturing her with his irritating wit and snappy comebacks, just as she did yesterday in shutting him down the way she did. “Why are you here, Ransom?” It comes out tiredly, less like a question and more like a statement drenched in boredom. 

“I was on my way home yesterday when I had a moment of clarity.” He sets her phone down on her desk after leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s a lot I could get out of this, fuck the exposure. I wasn't gonna accept, but my mother’s interminable calls, my family’s…” Shaking his head, he clicks his tongue, “...deeply rooted and vehement animosity towards me and my character—“ _He can’t be that bad._ “—are things that inspire me to get out of bed in the morning.” _Well, maybe he is, then._

Ransom leans back now, crossing his ankle over his knee again, letting his face rest on his hand. “I wanna further stimulate that hatred.”

Remembering the earlier phone call with his mother, Alana perks up to listen in a bit more carefully, letting his reasoning dissolve in her head. “Sounds miserable.” 

What she didn’t realize was how similar his reasoning was to hers, ever so hellbent on blowing off every other guy or girl she comes into contact with. At least Ransom had somewhat come to terms with the motivations behind his exploitations. 

“Maybe. I’m deciding to take advantage of the situation. This could, and likely should, have gone to someone else, but I heard the ladies in the front talking about sex appeal, so… it checks out.” 

His absurd cockiness elicits a scoff from Alana the moment his words reach her ears. With a tilt of her head, she considers it. However valid that claim may be, she’s steadily irritated by his overconfidence. “So, you just want to spite your family. That’s all?” 

“Among other things.” He stands, eyes panning over her from bottom to top, drinking in as much of her appearance as he can from her seated position. 

“Caught that, _again_.” He smiles deviously; something she’d better hurry up and get used to if she intends to interact with him any longer. 

She’d be a liar if she said turning down Ransom’s advances from the night before didn’t sting a bit more than usual. He was just another guy, sure, but as Oliver said when he first walked through the door of the _Ember Liquors_ , _“He’s wearing something different, and he’s cute. Right?”_ And, judging by the way he’s acting now, he’s not looking for something _permanent._ He checks off all the boxes.

But, it’s not time for him or her to bare their teeth, not quite yet. He tosses his coat over his arm. “I can just imagine the sheer, utter _irritation_ in her voice when she finds out, either from me or from the new issue of _Insouciant_ on some magazine rack somewhere _._ All their faces at a family dinner when the arguments inevitably break out… it’ll be fun, to say the least.”

“How much do you have to dislike your family to want to deliberately spite them?”

“Hmph. Fuck my family.” He scrutinizes her face, twisted in a hybrid of confusion and astonishment. “You’d get something out of it, too; You’d get to meet Harlan. Multiple times.”

Her faces changes instantaneously, that awe and shock from before morphing into morbid curiosity. Not only would she get to meet _the_ Harlan Thrombey and see the various animal statues in his yard from _The Menagerie Tragedy_ trilogy—on top of other various things that she’s read about—she’d also get to prove to Oliver that she didn’t have a pattern, should it have to resort to that. Which, knowing Oliver, it most definitely and inevitably will.

Two birds with one stone. Maybe even the whole flock.

What Ransom won’t let her in on is that he views her, specifically, as a _game_. He'd let her be keen to his advances, not one to really hide that type of stuff, but anything further would remain internal. Just to give him the upper hand. God forbid a man like this doesn’t get what he wants precisely when he wants it. It was less about wanting to sleep with her, as he could get that anywhere. To be fair, he’s never had trouble before. 

But if life is a boxing match, then Ransom is Floyd Mayweather, and last night was a scrimmage; one he isn’t particularly fond of losing. Never before has he met someone who took his punches and threw them right back at him. 

What can he say? His interest is piqued, and the game is commenced. He’s set his sights and sunk his teeth, and he intends to follow through. “Come on.”

“And just where do you intend on taking me?”

“You said something about a ‘style profile.’ We’re going to my place.” Yes, she did, and home visits typically—hell, _never_ —were a part of the process. 

Despite this, she finds herself gathering her things and following him out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m having fun exploring a diff side of ransom’s character this way, and i hope whoever is reading this is having a good time also as well!  
> 


	4. The First Dose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tensions arise as ransom makes the right moves at all the right times, but alana quickly catches on to his manipulations.

“You read?” _T_ _he New Yorker, The New York Times, Wired,_ and even _Vanity Fair_ litter the coffee table nearest to the entrance of his home, along with scattered newspapers and their clippings. 

He shuts the door behind them, rattling the house subtly, tossing his keys in a glass bowl with only one other item in it: a pair of busted Ray-Bans, not dissimilar to the ones he had on him at the bar yesterday. However, these are clearly too beaten up for any further use.

He disregards the question and heads straight for the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot, leaving Alana to explore a bit more thoroughly. Bookcases line a couple of walls, daring to outnumber the ridiculous amount of windows the structure is made of. 

_How does he get any privacy?_ She thinks about the drive to his house up that long, winding road that could’ve served as its own street, separate from the one Ransom actually lived on: Kenoke Road, which lies somewhere in one of the richest neighborhoods in this part of Massachusetts. She’d amused herself by looking for properties in the area when first moving here, but safe to say, the prices were just as outlandish as that scarf Ransom wore to the bar yesterday. That’s probably why he bought property here. 

“There’s coffee,” he says, voice resonating from the kitchen. She follows the sound to find his back turned to the entryway, one cup for himself in his hand. 

Alana watches as he makes his way over to her and quickly observes the lack of a second mug. Reaching out a hand, she grabs for his and secures it, taking a curious sip of which she upturns her nose. 

“Is there alcohol in this?” Her eyes scan the kitchen until she observes the rectangular bottle on the counter. _Whiskey._ “It’s two o’clock.”

Ransom shrugs, reclaiming his mug before sitting down on the white, stuffy-looking chair nearby to take another sip. He sets it down on his _glass_ kitchen table atop _another_ magazine and crosses his ankle over his knee. “Tell me about this style profile shit.” 

“Since you’re the lead,” she starts, standing in front of the table, hands on her hips, one leg pushed out in front of the other, “I need to get to know _more_ about you—“ If she didn’t know better, she’d say there _wasn’t_ another smarmy smirk worming its way across his face based solely on that comment. “—That way, when the writer, Gwen, conducts the interview with you, she can mention the whole clothes and style aspect of it, y’know, really intertwine it with your personality and whatever else. _Since you don’t do much, anyway._ ” She slips in the last sentence as a dig, one that’s painfully unsuccessful in affecting him. 

Her neutral expression turns quickly when she locks eyes with him. “Why are you smiling at me?” 

Peering over the edge of his cup, he takes another sip. “Do you put a fuck-ton of sugar in yours or something?”

“What, my coffee?” He nods. “No. No, but I at least put _some._ Yours isn’t sweet at all. And it’s, again, _two o’clock._ ” Raising his eyebrows, he tips his head, daring her to prove his assumption wrong. She scoffs in response, folding her arms over her chest, wandering closer to the carafe of coffee on the counter close by. “Fine. Where do you keep your mugs?” She starts opening various cabinets, but to no avail.

Ransom stands, cracks his knuckles, and wanders over until she hears his footsteps stop short just behind her. Intending to peek over her shoulder, she pulls her arms down and stops opening cabinets, but her intentions are halted. 

Alana questions whether she can actually _sense_ his presence or if she’s simply imagining it just before he lets his hand graze her hip, guiding her slightly to the left. His fingers carry electricity, and his action is enough to send a current through her body, causing her arms and legs to become restless. 

Reaching out an arm past the side of her head, he pulls open the cabinet directly in front of her. 

“They’re right here,” he breathes, his tone soft and low, lips brushing against the crest of her ear. 

The breath from his words caresses her neck and causes goosebumps to sprout on her skin as she shifts her position only slightly, squeezing her legs together to relieve the dull aching that starts in the bottom of her belly. He smells _good, intoxicatingly so—_ what rich guy doesn’t—like lime and grapefruit and oranges, or something like that, but Alana can’t think too hard about it. She can’t think _at all._

The weather of her mind is overcast by Ransom’s proximity: his smell, his breath on her neck, his hand on her body, his chest so close to her back, all prove to be dark clouds in her frontal lobe, muddying and secluding her judgment. 

She pulls down a mug and grasps it in her hands, running her thumbs gently over the hardened ceramic. Ransom still hasn’t retreated from invading her personal space, though his hand has moved from her hip to brace himself on the counter. She’d never admit it, not to him, _especially_ not to herself, but she didn’t mind its presence there; though, she’s not too sure whether its new placement has really any hand in subsiding that developing dull ache. 

_Almost_ unable to bring herself to do it, Alana turns around and peers up at him. Her chest rises, deep breath in, no breath out, fingers grasping the mug a little firmer. His tongue flicks over his teeth before he exhales a heavy breath that fades into a sly smile. He leans forward, closer, and closer, and _closer_ to her until his fingers wrap around the container just behind her—the one that holds the sugar. He retreats, container of sugar in hand, and sits back down, crosses his leg again.

Her chest finally falls and a shiver radiates down her spine. 

_What the fuck just happened?_

“Did you hear a thing I said to you earlier?” He really has a way of making her lose her train of thought. 

“Yeah; Gwen, interview, clothes. I can do _more_ than one thing at a time, Alana, I’ve got the stamina.” She shoots him a glare to which he only responds with a smile. “Just kidding.” 

_Bzz Zzz Zzz_

She pulls her phone from her back pocket. One text from Oliver.

**—What time are you coming back so we can do dinner? And how are things at Ransom’s?**

**—I’ll be there in an hour or two. How did you know about that?**

**—I’d never reveal my sources.**

**—I’ll tell you over dinner.**

She tucks her phone away, turning her attention back toward Ransom, who’s enamored with something else now. “I saw the paintings out in the foyer. They’re nice.” Trying her best to return to normalcy after the bizarre events that just occurred, she sets the mug back down on the counter and snatches up the carafe, taking a whiff of the dark roasted blend Ransom has brewed. Filling the mug about halfway, she heads back to the table to put an ample of sugar, about a tablespoon, give or take, to offset the bitterness she tasted in Ransom’s. 

“I suppose,” he laughs, setting down the magazine he was distracting himself with, standing up to head out to look at the paintings again. “My mother got them. They’re useless.” Scrambling to keep up with his agile movements, she follows him out into the foyer. 

Taking in the sight of the four different works of art plastered against the walls that _don’t_ have windows, her eyes fixate on the one piece above the fireplace. With piqued interest, she heads over to scrutinize it more tentatively. “This one, too? Still your mom?” He grabs her mug this time and she gives it up with ease, encouraging him to have a taste. 

“Mmn. No,” he pauses to take a sip of the dark brown liquid, “That one’s old.” 

“A gift?” She walks even closer to run her fingers over the ridges left by drying paint on the canvas. Two-thirds of the piece is differing shades of yellow, specifically the left portion, while the right, mostly blue, depicts what seems to be a cat.

Taking one last sip, slightly off-kilter by the fact that it doesn’t taste as unpleasant as he would’ve hoped, he sets her mug down on the black end table nearby. “Of sorts.”

 _Okay, clearly not getting anything out of this…_ “Does it mean anything? To you, at least?”

“Who knows. Though, if you stand right here…” His hands find their way back to her hips, fingers digging lightly into her, the fabric of her jeans the only thing stopping him from dragging his nails against her skin. He manipulates her in his hands and pulls her to stand in front of him. 

“...Tilt your head a bit to the left…” Their movements mimic each other when Alana leans into his influences, tipping her head in tandem with his, letting her shoulders relax underneath him. 

Ransom’s composure takes a tumble when his eyes flit across the recently exposed expanse of skin. “...Look at it from this angle…” Persistent thoughts about his hand wrapped around her throat almost manifest themselves, until they mutate into the strengthening of the grip of his fingers. 

“...It’s something completely different.” Just as she lurches backward, leaning even further into his ironclad grip, he presses his body into hers, their hips now flush with each other. She forces out a breath and feels her stomach burn, even more so when his fingers explore a bit further down the sides of her thighs and scratch against the seams of her jeans; eager, _greedy_ , even, but not wanting to give too much way to his needs. Rather, _wants._

Ransom’s hands glide back up ever so gradually, wandering touches stalling at the bend in her ass while he watches his work with a side-eye, teetering on the edge of failure as his efforts to tempt her prove to be counterintuitive and make him want her that much more.

His grip fluctuates again when she rolls her hips back only slightly, fingertips nearly pawing at her, thumbs involuntarily creeping up the sides of her body, snaking their way beneath her shirt with utmost patience. They then dip down under the hem of her jeans, but only momentarily as they slide back out, pulling the fabric and letting it snap back into place against her skin. 

Briskly realizing _her_ movements are now deriving the reactions from _him_ , she rolls her hips again, leaning back and letting his body fully embrace hers. His head swoops down to meet her neck, his now audible rhythmic breaths playing sporadically against the thudding heartbeat in her chest.

“You see it?” Ransom purrs, lips ghosting over the side of her neck, just below her earlobe while she nods her head ‘yes’, even though it’s a bald-faced lie. She’s far from focused on some trivial painting at this point as she lets herself get caught up in the small surge of power he’s unwittingly given her, letting himself react a little too inordinately to her movements. 

She starts to grasp why he’s been acting the way he has been—at the bar, in her office, his kitchen just a few moments ago. The raw act of seduction carries a certain weight, a specific _power_ behind it that Ransom, despite his limited attempts to deviate from it, can’t seem to give up. 

But that’s just it, for both parties involved; _temptation,_ and other drugs, give off such a substantial high, that anyone, even the mightiest of people with the strongest of wills, can become addicted after just the first dose. Fuck what she’s been doing, flirting with guys and girls, leading them on to let them down once she’s had her thrill.

 _This_ is her first dose.

His thumbs steadily creep higher, unconsciously begging to feel the rest of her skin underneath his fingertips. 

He feels her drifting forward faintly, so he tugs her backward, wreathing his fingers into her belt loops to keep her there, maintain their closeness. Alana rolls her hips yet again, but this time he meets her attempt purposefully, catching her well off-guard as she instinctively grasps for his hands until—

_Bzz Zzz Zzz_

“ _Shit,_ ” he curses sharply under his breath, gritting his teeth, barely resisting letting all his impulsive urges come to fruition right then, right there.

“Something wrong?” 

“No. Hold on.” 

_“_ ** _What_** _, Linda?”_ His tone is caustic as their closeness dissipates and his irritation is on a grand uprising while he stomps away, phone pressed tightly against his ear, his empty hand finding its way into his pocket. _“You do NOT call me Linda—”_ is all Alana hears before he’s well out of earshot for her to eavesdrop any longer.

Their conversation goes on for a bit more than a moment. Tilting her head back to the angle Ransom suggested, she takes the time to actually study the painting this time. 

From this angle, the cat she saw earlier turns into the hull of a ship, and one of the shades of yellow turns to a sail, _a boat,_ with the sun setting behind it as a paler shade of yellow. _A boat?_

Alana slides her phone from her back pocket before sitting down on the yellow chair nearby, crossing her ankles as she sinks into the solaces of the chair’s cushions. It didn’t look comfortable at first glance, but it surely is. Looks can be deceiving. 

She quickly remembers her dinner date with Oliver and decides to swiftly type out another text, notifying him that she’ll be back sooner rather than later. 

**—Being held up. Didn’t forget about you.**

**—Take your time.**

**—Absolutely not. Something just happened and I gotta get outta here.**

Further realizing the phone call isn't a one-and-done, Alana arises from her seat to peruse his place a bit more thoroughly. The windows, while still slightly off-putting—a little too _overexposed_ for her taste—let in a stunning amount of sunlight that eliminates most of the need for artificial lighting. 

She heads over to the coffee table to take a glance at the magazines but notices his laptop peeking out from underneath a stack of them. Moving them out of the way, she uncovers a notepad with a pen beside it that reads:

_A Misanthropic Dream_

_Para Raymor (1962, precinct 41, out of Greymere dist)_

_three murders, shotgun, poison, ? and strangling, one after the other in consecutive weeks? months?_

_is it out of anger or repressed feelings?_

_Plot hole in Para’s backstory..._

And a bunch of other words and phrases scribbled on, all nondescript, in handwriting that looks as if a typewriter wrote it. Has she just received a sneak-peek into Harlan’s next novel? Hopefully, she hasn’t spoiled it for herself by her light snooping. Why would Ransom have it anyways? Or, maybe Ransom was trying to write his own whodunnit, take after his grandfather, turn that inexplicable stream of income into one easily explainable.

The sound of his footsteps round the corner, along with the rustling of a sleeve of cookies. She spins around to face him and notices his expression appearing relatively aggravated, his jaw stiff and his head held higher. 

“Is this one of Harlan’s new ideas?” 

He grunts. “I was his research assistant. He had me review plots, too, yeah. So, you’re meeting Harlan Sunday at our family dinner. Pick you up at seven, but we’re gonna be late anyway, so… No need to rush.” Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again before deciding to remain closed. She cocks her head to the side before standing up to face him. He pops a cookie in his mouth, doing nothing to conceal the loud _crunch_ that ensues; if anything, he’s enunciating it. 

“Sunday?” He nods. 

“ _This_ Sunday?” He nods again, planting another cookie in his mouth. _Crunch._

“Hmm. Okay.” He narrows his eyes at her, furrowing his brows before deciding to drop it. _Crunch._

“What’s your phone number?” He raises a previously furrowed eyebrow, tipping his head to the side, resting his tongue on his teeth. Her expression falls and she rolls her eyes before closing them and shaking her head. “I need your number to contact you if I have questions.” 

“Whatever settles that cognitive dissonance, sweetheart.” _Crunch._

“Looks like you _do_ have a psych degree. And don’t call me sweetheart.” 

“Never said I didn’t.” She wasn’t positive, but she was pretty damn sure that the phrase _Do I look like I have a degree in psychology?_ carried the same weight as saying that you didn’t have a degree in psychology. 

_“Right.”_

He recites his phone number to her, watching her fingers work seamlessly over the screen of her phone to type them into memory. “Great. So, I have to leave, but, if you come by my job again tomorrow—”

“Hm. Can’t.” _Crunch._

“And why not?”

He lets a puff of air out through his nose and a smile warm his previously cool features. “Don’t wanna.” _Crunch._

“Okay, look, dude, I don’t even normally do ‘house calls’ or whatever this B.S. is—” _Crunch._ “—and I could’ve stayed at work and actually gotten something done, but here I am. At your—” _Crunch._ “—place. The least you can do is just let me do _my_ stupid job for this article _you_ said you wanted to do all of a sudden. Nothing’s gonna get done here. All you’ve done in the past hour is—” _Crunch._ “Can you _please_ **_stop_ ** with the _fucking_ cookies?” 

She’s silenced by the sound of gleeful laughter and the smug grin on his face. “Why are you laughing?”

“It’s funny.” He pops another cookie in his mouth. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.” _Crunch._

In detail as deep as she can muster, Alana explains the “house call” to Oliver on the way to her home from their dinner, ensuring that she emphasizes all the nitty, gritty details about how his hands couldn’t seem to take an intermission from being on her body. “And, not to mention, the only thing I learned about him explicitly is that he puts _whiskey_ in his _coffee_ at _two o’clock_ in the afternoon, he apparently interned for Harlan or something—there’s no way he _reads_ —and he has a bunch of shit in his house that he doesn’t even like.”

Oliver smiles. “Then, dress him like Ernest Hemingway.”

She presses her lips into a tight line. “You don’t understand. It’s like a chess match with him. I don’t even know him well enough yet, but from the bar, and then today and what I observed…” She shakes her head, running a hand over her hips, imagining the ghost of his fingertips still gripping her. “Just… something casual seems likely if anything were to happen. And it’s only been two days, right, but I can’t say I _dislike_ him; he’s not _mean_ , he’s just… fuckin’ weird. _Mysterious._ He’s trying to mess with me, I know it and I can tell. No one acts like that on a day-to-day basis ‘cause it’s batshit.”

“Well, honestly? If it were me, I would’ve given it all up, right then, right there, the moment he put his hands on me.”

With a chuckle, she says, “I really thought about it. But...” Oliver cocks his head, sucking in a sharp breath. “Stop. If he wants to play a game, or whatever the _fuck_ he’s doing, two can play. I can rumble. I know how to play chess.”

“You are…” he pauses, shaking his head in utter disappointment, “...a clown.” An exasperated sigh scrapes past her vocal cords. Oliver glares at her, his eyes showing compassion, but his accompanying tone firm and unwavering, “Just have sex with the guy, Alana. It’s really not that difficult. You’re making it way too complicated, and I told you that one day you’d meet your match. This is it. _Him._ Just enjoy the ride.”

“You can’t—” She trips over her words, the thought stumbling over the thousands of other ideations currently going through her head. “You can’t just _have sex_ with a guy like that. And… _I want to,_ just to see what it’d be like, but now it’s all wrapped up with work, which is probably what he wanted in the first place...” She ponders the validity of her statement. It’s possible that this is just about getting into her pants—he said that at their second meeting, not explicitly, but that didn’t matter—but is it _plausible?_

Something feels _off_ about taking that assumption at face-value _._ Especially after today. 

Today was more than flirting; it was a game of temptation. Every one of his movements, actions, deliberations, was calculated for maximum impact, so when the culmination of his efforts is reached, the payoff will be that much higher, more satisfying, no matter how long it takes. Sure, he wants her, but he can wait until she is just as desperate for him as he wants her to be. 

“I know things with relationships and you in the past have been…” In tandem with the red light just ahead, Oliver takes a pause to look over at her, give her his full, undivided attention. 

“Rough is a soft word for it. You know what I mean. But, that doesn’t mean you can shut off and shut down.” The light turns green and he pulls off, turning his attention back toward the road. “Honestly, babe; if you don’t sleep with him, I will. That’s a threat and a promise.” 

She scoffs, shifting in the seat beside him, folding her arms over her stomach. Gnawing on her tongue, Alana glances over at Oliver again before saying, “You’re right.”

Once Oliver pulls up to her place, she exits his car and rounds it to meet him at his window. “Give me one good reason.”

“I just gave you several.”

“Just one more.” 

“You wanna meet that author, right? You said something casual seemed plausible with him, also, he looks like _that,_ and he’s rich…” He tips his head, suggesting that the last two reasons should be enough on their own. For the second time tonight, she digests his words, which finally lead her to spin on her heels, pull her keys from her purse and trot off to her car nearby. 

“Alana, that didn’t necessarily mean right now—where are you going?”

“Ask the horse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you're enjoying so far. ch 4 should be up soon. it's half written, and we get into some smutty shit. keep an eye out.


	5. Terms and Conditions Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smuttttt bada bing bada boom

Alana slides into the driver’s seat, clicking her seatbelt into place, rustling with her things to find her phone buried deep in her purse. 

**—I’m coming over.**

She tosses the device onto the passenger’s seat, puts the car in reverse, and starts on her drive over the Ransom’s. 

Succumbing to her desires, she presses the doorbell button and listens for the chime, hearing a few seconds of calm shuffling before Ransom starts to take shape behind the slightly frosted glass of his front door. 

_Oh._ His hair is disheveled and damp as he opens the door, likely following a shower and a towel dry, and he’s wearing a pair of ill-fitting, black sweatpants that hang loosely from his waist. Her eyes gravitate to the bare expanse of toned, muscular skin that is his torso. Shirtless. _I should’ve just gone in the house._

She pushes past him in the doorway which he shuts behind them. The thought of him in the shower creeps up on her slowly as she turns around to see him standing close behind, hands tucked into his pockets, hips pushed slightly forward compared to the rest of his body. 

Her eyes unwillingly scan him again, top to bottom, bottom to top, drinking in every nuance. _Stop staring, stop staring, stop staring, stop staring..._ “Um—” 

Before she can even gather an iota of composure, he’s moving closer to her and her heart is beating faster, chest rising and falling to a tempo too lively. Her hand begs for its own control, wanting to be able to feel the firmness of his stature, but her brain won’t let it, caught up in too much pride to let such an eccentric, money-mooching, playboy have her that easily—despite how badly she wants him all the same. Her libido hasn’t yet caught up with her thoughts, however, because right now, her fingers are running against the ridges and crevices in his chest and he’s watching her with a ravenous stare. 

She sighs out a deep breath. Her damn heartbeat reminds her of what she's doing before she withdraws her hand, cursing herself for losing too much control, too fast. _Slow down._

“Why are you here, Alana?” It comes out as a whisper. The question doesn’t sound like one; he already knows the answer. 

She feels the wetness between her legs growing, begging her for something else, just a little bit more to sate her. “I wanna be.” His teeth roll over his bottom lip. He moves closer again, ensuring that they’re now only inches apart. 

Ransom’s done it before; tease her, make her hate him and herself for wanting him so damn badly. He should be able to do it again. But his control blunders when his eyes drift down to her neck for the second time today, the image of his fingertips digging into the sides fogging his judgment. His jaw clenches, unclenches. 

“Feels… right… I guess.” She keeps her voice low, peering up at him and him down at her. He licks his lips and, before he can stop himself, his fingers dance on the skin of her neck, light touches and graces moving further and further back until his broad palm encases her, his fingers now digging lightly into the back of her neck. Instinctively, her body obeys the manipulations of his, her chin tilting up to allow him space and to look him in the eye as she swallows roughly and feels his hand refuse to give up the light pressure. 

She wraps a hand around his wrist, spiraling for as little as a minute grasp on the situation. Unable to think straight, she licks her lips and swallows again, holding her own by maintaining eye contact with him. It feels wrong, it feels wrong, _it feels wrong_ for her to let him do this, but so right at the same time, so very undeniable at the source. 

“ _What exactly feels right?_ ” His head nears hers, lips closing in slowly, patiently as he observes every microexpression on her face. It’s solely the movement of his eyes—the way they linger over his hand wrapped around her throat and her hand wrapped around his wrist—that ties her stomach in knots. He looks hungry, destitute, and those icy cold eyes from before have a certain flame beneath them. 

Intimidation would be a good word for it, whatever this is, but Ransom would be more inclined to define it as the winning move. 

_Checkmate._

She can’t take it anymore. And neither can he. 

Raw and animalistic, he bares his teeth and she hers. Their lips meet almost angrily, each tearing into the other like vultures at a feast; _knives out, beaks bloody,_ every movement met with an equally intense ardor. Hiked up on his waist, Alana lets her nails rake down the taut skin of his shoulders, strong arms carrying her effortlessly up the stairs. 

They collapse on his bed together, him on top of her, pushing her arms above her head and then her shirt, letting his lips, mouth, teeth, tongue explore the newly exposed skin. Sharp inhales and exhales do nothing but spur him on as he unclasps her bra and slides her pants and panties down the length of her legs, teasing her by kissing, licking, sucking, biting his way back up the length of her body.

She holds on to him, nails leaving crescent moon imprints in his smooth skin while he sucks bruises into hers, letting his fingers travel back down until they coat themselves in her slick. He can’t hold back, not anymore, too caught up in the kill, exhausted from the chase, so he remains, working his way across her collar bones painfully slowly, letting her soft moans from the dexterity of his fingers sing him a sinful song. 

Blunt teeth meet tender thighs and heavy hands meet delicate hips after he’s finally done marking her, satisfied with his work. Ransom’s name lingers on the tip of her tongue while the smell of sex and the sound of pleasure saturate his bedroom, wracking the walls with something truly wicked, more blasphemous than each of the seven deadly sins combined. 

He doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied her, legs trembling, fingers knitted through his hair, his name the only word she remembers how to pronounce. 

He aligns himself, positioning her legs precisely where he wants them before easing in. Bracing himself on two hands pressed harshly into his bed, he groans when he’s buried to the hilt, relishing in the sound of her now desperate, needy moans. Alana grips his sheets, intertwining her fingers with the plush material that adorns his bed. 

Thrusting once, twice, three times, he starts up a rhythm, slow but intense, hips rolling into hers tentatively. It’s enough to drive her over the edge again as she mewls his name, letting her nails scrape against and scratch his back, gritting her teeth before her mouth falls open and her orgasm drains her of energy. 

He readjusts, bending his arms to lower himself closer to her, and settles his head into the crook of her neck. Just as his hips begin to slow and stutter, his high crests over him and he groans thickly into her shoulder, sending vibrations to ripple through her skin, teeth nipping more eventual bruises as he comes down with a shiver, letting his muscles relax into hers. 

_Fuck._

She swiftly reaches for her phone, pressing the **STOP** button on the screen, panickedly glancing over at Ransom with hopes that she won’t wake him up before she has time to get herself together. _7:00 am._ She has to be at work in two hours. More than enough time. 

Flipping the covers off, she rolls out of bed to search for her scattered clothes around his room. Her head thuds and she realizes she might have stood up a bit too suddenly. _It’s fine._ She sits back down on the bed, trying to get the room to stop swirling around her. On top of having to get clean, she now needs to find something to fix her unexpected vertigo, only resulting from Ransom and his ability to send her reeling.

Slowly this time, she rises to her feet. _Jeans_ — _check, underwear_ — _check, bra_ — _check…_ But where’s her shirt?

Creeping around to the other side of his bed, she finds it peeking out from beneath the covers—beneath his _body._

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

Saying ‘fuck it,’ she heads off to find a bathroom, presumably one with a shower in it that she can use to cleanse whatever messes last night’s lapse in judgment produced. 

She can’t necessarily say she _regrets_ what happened—the sex was far too fucking phenomenal to further consider that—but the person that she chose to do it with had entangled themselves with her job, making things a bit more complicated. She just hopes now that he’ll go back on the offer to be in the magazine. 

Wandering out into the hallway, balled-up clothes in her arms, she scampers to locate a bathroom, sighing in relief when she sees a slightly ajar door to her left. 

Marching in, she throws her clothes atop the counter and wraps a hand around the knob in the shower. Heading back over to the door, she closes it cautiously, trying desperately to make the least amount of noise possible.

Alana stares into the mirror and studies herself. Her fingers run over the pale red bruises from where the pads of his fingers dug into her hips, and then the light purple hickeys peppered across her collarbones. 

_Oh, God._

The not-so-distant memory of the ghastly shadow of his broad palm encased around her neck from where his hand lay following the very limited conversation they had in his foyer haunts over her as she drags her nails across her throat, still imagining the voracious flame that raged behind his stare.

_Jesus Christ._

His name on her lips like a broken prayer, her moans like a shamelessly sinful hymn, the bite marks on her shoulder from when he came inside of her… the thoughts leave her punch-drunk as she climbs into the shower, letting the deliberately frigid water numb her senses and try to rinse off whatever hex he’s put on her. 

_Lord have mercy._

Picking up the bottle of soap nearby, she takes a whiff and finds her prior efforts nullified by the smell, those same notes of lime, grapefruit, and oranges proving to transport her right back underneath him, his body towering over her, his breath on her neck, lips and teeth on her skin—

_Stop._

She sucks it up and uses the soap anyways, scrubbing her skin far too roughly in an attempt to wash everything away, though, she knows she can’t. The brisk air she feels after stepping out of the shower makes her shiver before she grabs for a towel and dries herself off. The intrusive thoughts have subsided for now as she brings herself back to reality; not only is her shirt pinned underneath him, but it’s very conveniently a scoop neck that’ll have more than a bit of trouble concealing the surface level contusions on her collarbones. 

_Great._

Opting in a last-ditch effort to search his closet for something that’ll suffice in concealing last night’s decisions, she pulls on her underwear and reaches for her jeans, only to realize that they’re drenched. Carelessly, she threw them in the sink. Which was wet. 

_Fan-fucking-tastic._

She can dry them. It’ll take, what, 30 minutes? 

Next order of business? Fix her grogginess. 

Trotting down the stairs, she freezes in her place when her phone goes off again, the same blaring tone as before. The only difference is, she’s too far away from it to stop it. 

She forgot about the second alarm.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ —in tandem with her rushed footsteps, the blaring tone comes to a stop. Her heart falls through her chest as she contemplates what to do next. _Still need that coffee, still need to discuss what happened last night._ Might as well get the latter out of the way. 

Creeping around the corner of his bedroom door, she takes a peek. “So, I’m not looking for a relationship—”

He groans, sitting up and stretching his arms out, letting his bones snap and pop, before muttering, “Don’t flatter yourself.” He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders back, allowing Alana to see the muscles of his arms flex. She shakes her head, effectively knocking the developing daze out of her system.

“You don’t seem like the type, anyways.” He grunts.

“You caught me.” Ransom examines her silently, from her attire to her slightly damp hair. He yanks her shirt from underneath himself and tosses it across the bed. “Guess you’re gonna need that.” 

“Hmph. So, I guess you’re gonna quit the article now, which is really sad... We’ll have to find another front runner, and, well, _oh, hell_ to the ‘sex appeal’ or whatever, that’s too bad, really unfortunate—”

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I’m not quitting.” _Fuck._ Now she’ll have this memory haunting over her every time he comes into work for the next two weeks. _Shit._

Sure, the goal of this whole ordeal that he’d never let her keen to was getting something he couldn’t have— _her_ —but he still has his other motivations; ones that Alana had very well known about. “I’m also gonna need to borrow a shirt…” She trails over to the bed, picking up the futile scoop-neck.

“Mmn.” He chews on his tongue, thinking over whether or not he’ll let her. “Maybe. You should come back to bed.” 

“I have to leave in an hour,” she says, picking her phone up from the dresser, checking her messages, realizing that Oliver was trying to contact her last night. **Three texts, two calls.** Good thing she put her phone on silent. 

Shifting closer to her, Ransom reaches out an arm and lets his hand settle on the inside of her thigh. His fingers inch further and further up until she shifts, half-heartedly trying to get him away from her. 

“Hour’s more than enough time,” he coos, strengthening his grip, pulling her lightly towards the bed. 

“You can’t be serious. You’re addicted.”

“Yeah. Now, stop making me convince you, and just _get over here_.” Morning sex _is_ better than coffee. Healthier, too.

How she ended up on top of him this time is no mystery to her, or to him. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, and, well… Here she is, riding, gripping onto his shoulders and leaving thin scratches on his upper back while his heavy fingers find those pale red bruises and make sure they remain for some time to come. His eyes, however, are fixated on her collarbones and fuel his triumphant demeanor; he’s got her, and they both damn-well know it. Lesser known is the fact that she’s got him as well, simply by playing the card of obstinance that he’s not used to dealing with. 

“ _Don’t stop, please_ …” she mewls, falling apart atop him and letting him do the rest of the work. He thrusts up into her, not only driving her mad but driving her over the edge. The only thing that brings her back to Earth is the firmness of his body as she clutches onto him, rolling her hips down into his, panting uselessly into his ear. 

Alana’s noises turn into a slurred mix of his name and broken moans before Ransom comes, holding her hips firmly atop his and thrusting erratically to ride out his high. He grunts and growls and groans as he comes down, panting out exhaustive breaths in her ear. She climbs off and plops down next to him, letting her lungs fill with air and expel it at the same rate as his.

“Okay,” she struggles to catch her breath, “well, uh… I’d really appreciate it if…” She trails off as he stands. Her eyes rake over his bare body, muscles taut, flexing when his arms extend above his head. 

Swallowing before resuming whatever thought she was trying to get out before, she says, “...if you’d...be cordial when you come in later today…” _Shut up._

“Oh yeah. Forgot about that.” 

_What is this?_ The question begs her mind, but she’s more than a little hesitant to ask. They’ll be working together for the next couple of weeks, and she was just invited over his grandfather’s house for a dinner party that would be occurring in a few days. She can’t pass up a chance to meet her favorite author, and she can’t jeopardize her job. 

So, cutting ties is out of the window, especially considering she wouldn’t mind, to say the _least_ , if this happened again. _Or kept happening._

 _Don’t flatter yourself_ means he isn’t looking for a relationship, and well, neither is she. 

She’d better hurry up and decide what to say, though, ‘cause he’s making his way to the shower and if she follows him, she’ll likely end up in there with him. 

“Friends?” 

“Let’s just call it ‘benefits’.”

**Author's Note:**

> parts/ideas of this story are lifted from my other story, Ride the Coattails, which was PWP for the most part. so, if you're looking for that, there you go.


End file.
